


Broken Blade

by Alobear



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Cannibalism, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alobear/pseuds/Alobear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bad things are done to Illya, and Napoleon and Gaby have to work hard to bring him back to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Blade

**Author's Note:**

> Usually when I try to go dark, the story rebels and ends up fluffy, despite my best efforts. With this one, I think I finally managed to find the darkness. You have been warned.

XXXXX 

 

_[Now]_

 

Napoleon's hands shake as he picks the lock, rattling the mechanism.  It's a good job they aren't trying to be quiet.

 

"Do you really think this could be the place?" he asks Gaby, who is standing over him.

 

She sighs.  "Well, unless you open the door, we'll never find out."

 

Napoleon bites back an angry retort.  They are both on edge; irritable from exhaustion and anxiety.  It will do nobody any good for them to have a fight out here on the street; not when they might finally be close to their goal.  His breath catches in his throat at the thought that their search might be over, and he tries to calm himself so he can complete the job before him.

 

He glances around, checking that there is still nobody watching them.  The building they are trying to enter is a disused warehouse in a very run-down district of Caracas.  It is two o'clock in the morning and anyone who calls this place home is wrapped up as tightly as they can be in whatever shelter they have access to.  Satisfied that their activity isn't under scrutiny, Napoleon takes a deep breath and turns his attention back to the task at hand.

 

A moment later, there is loud click and the door swings inwards.  There is no acknowledgement of the achievement from Gaby; she just readies her gun and steps inside, clearly expecting Napoleon to follow.  He thrusts his lock picks into a pocket, rises smoothly to his feet and does just that.

 

The smell hits him almost immediately.  It's foul, in an organic way that has bile rising in his throat, and a deep fear rising in his mind.  It's been five days since Illya disappeared, and the likelihood of them finding him alive is shrinking in real time.  The intelligence that has brought them here is more solid than anything else they've found so far, but Napoleon is beginning to wonder if they are fighting a losing battle.  The inside of the warehouse is damp and dark; there is mould and condensation on the walls, and a lot of the floorboards are rotten.  They pick their way down the corridor, stepping carefully on the treacherous footing.  Gaby has produced a torch and is shining it before them, swinging it from side to side to investigate rooms as they go past.

 

Napoleon is impressed with her composure.  He is having difficulty holding it together, but she moves forwards efficiently and confidently.  A corner at the end of the corridor brings them out into a open storage area, and reveals the source of the smell.  Several bodies are scattered about, and it is clear they have been dead for a couple of days.  Beneath the decay, Napoleon can see evidence of blunt force trauma and ripped flesh; bruises, broken bones, blood smeared across faces and clothing.  Taking out his own torch, he gives the nearest two a quick search but comes up empty.  Neither have any identification on them, not that he expected to find any.  He recognises one of them anyway, though, and experiences a surge of fierce satisfaction at the man’s demise.  It also means they are in the right place, for better or worse.

 

A strangled sound from the other end of the space propels Napoleon to his feet and over to where Gaby is standing.  Against the back wall are a row of cages, about three feet long and three high.  The first couple are empty, then one contains a body in a more advanced state of decay than the one in the open.  A fresher corpse is stuffed inside the next one, but it is the one at the end that has caught Gaby's attention.  In it is crouched a figure, barely covered by bloody rags, what skin is exposed marred with filth, bruises and lacerations.  In the dimness, Napoleon cannot make out the colour of the matted hair, but he knows the identity of the figure instantly from the broad shoulders and powerful limbs.

 

It is Illya.  They have found him, alive.

 

Relief and joy rush through Napoleon, but are short-lived.

 

Gaby has crouched down next to the cage and is reaching out to grasp hold of the wire mesh.

 

"Illya?" she says hesitantly.

 

The reaction is immediate.  Illya springs forward from his crouch, launching himself at the cage wall with an animal snarl.  He grabs towards Gaby's outstretched hand, and she falls backwards with a cry, tumbling out of his reach.  Napoleon steps forwards to catch her, but is brought up short by the expression in Illya's wide eyes.  It is pure, unadulterated rage; there is no recognition, no humanity even.  Illya impacts the wire and tears at it with his hands; Napoleon can see injuries that suggest this has become a regular habit.

 

He also notices blood crusted around Illya's mouth, and wonders what might have caused it.  Then, he sees the fingers of the corpse in the next-door cage sticking through the wire mesh - fingers that have been stripped of their flesh - and he turns away, sickened.

 

Gaby scrabbles in her bag, her breath coming in short gasps as she frantically searches for something.  She comes back up with a gun in her hand, takes aim and fires into the cage.  Illya howls with shock and pain, redoubling his assault on the cage.  As Napoleon looks on in horror, Gaby fumbles with the weapon, reloading it from a rectangular black case, and fires again.  This time, Illya slumps backwards with a whimper and, after a moment, lies still.

 

Gaby looks up at Napoleon, her eyes wide with distress.  They packed the tranquiliser gun for occasions when lethal force was not necessary or required.  Neither of them could have been prepared for the eventuality of having to use it on their team-mate.

 

Napoleon looks at the now unconcious figure in the cage.  They have found what they were looking for, but he is not sure it's really Illya they have found.

 

XXXXX

 

_[Before]_

 

Illya rolled over in bed, reaching out for Napoleon, but encountering only an empty pillow.  The sheet was still slightly warm, though, so he couldn’t have been gone long.  Illya stretched, then got out of bed, padding silently through the apartment to the lounge.  He spotted Napoleon immediately, standing by the coffee table in a bath robe, the phone receiver against his ear.  Napoleon looked round and grinned at Illya, but held up his hand to tell him to keep quiet.

 

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon said into the phone.  “I’ll be right over.”

 

There was a brief pause, then Napoleon said, “Oh, I’ll contact Agent Kuryakin.  I suspect I can track him down faster than you could.”  He waggled his eyebrows at Illya, who rolled his eyes back.

 

“Yes, sir,” Napoleon said again.  “We’ll see you shortly.”

 

He put the phone down.

 

“Mission?” Illya asked simply, and Napoleon nodded.

 

“Waverly wants us at HQ pronto,” Napoleon elaborated.  “Though I suppose we should build in a bit of time for me to ‘track you down’.”

 

Illya snorted.  “Lucky I am here.  Otherwise, perhaps you would miss briefing, trying to find me.”

 

Napoleon crossed the room in a few quick strides, and wrapped his arms around Illya’s bare torso, running his fingers lightly down Illya’s back and making him shiver with pleasure.

 

“There are better reasons I’m lucky you’re here,” he murmured, nuzzling Illya’s neck.

 

Illya steeled himself and pushed Napoleon resolutely away.  “No time for that now, Cowboy,” he said, brusquely.  “Mustn’t keep Waverly waiting.”

 

Napoleon capitulated with a sigh, then led the way back into the bedroom to get dressed.

 

It was a source of continual annoyance to Waverly that he could never seem to get hold of Illya when the UNCLE team was in New York.  What Illya couldn’t tell him, of course, was that he generally stayed at Napoleon’s apartment, though he did keep a tiny studio of his own for administrative purposes.

 

Gaby knew about them, of course.

 

When she'd found out, she had laughed delightedly and just said, "So that's why Illya's been such a pussycat lately.  Nice work, Napoleon."

 

Illya had growled at her for appearance's sake, but his heart hadn't really been in it.  Because she was right.  Napoleon's easy charm and unquestioning affection made him feel calm and safe, in a way he hadn't experienced since before his father was sent away.  It still took him by surprise when he thought about it - their first two meetings had been less than cordial, and it had taken time before they were comfortable enough with each other to let go of their nationality-based prejudices.  But, most of the time, Illya just went with it, because it was good, and that in itself demonstrated how much the relationship had changed him.

 

Forty minutes later, they entered the UNCLE headquarters building and made their way to the briefing room.  Gaby and Waverly were already there, waiting for them, and Waverly gestured for them to sit down, a little impatiently.  There was a junior agent also in the room, manning the projector, and he set the first slide in motion at a nod from Waverly.

 

The picture showed a forbidding-looking building that took up most of a city block.

 

“The Caracas office has requested our help with a little problem they’re having,” Waverly began, in his usual smooth tone.

 

“Venezuela?” Napoleon said.

 

“Yes, Solo, Venezuela,” Waverly confirmed.  “Top marks for your knowledge of world geography.”

 

“What could they need our help for?”

 

Waverly huffed in exasperation.  “Well, Solo, if you’d give me a chance to complete the briefing, I’ll tell you.  May I continue?”

 

Napoleon made a gracious ‘carry on’ gesture, making Waverly frown even more.  Waverly nodded at the projectionist, who slotted in the next slide.  It showed a middle-aged man with a high widow’s peak and sharp features, standing in some kind of lab.  He was wearing a white coat and was surrounded by racks of test tubes and beakers.

 

“This is Huascar Oliveros,” Waverly told them.  “He’s a Venezuelan chemist turned drug baron.  UNCLE has been keeping tabs on him for a while, and there have recently been disturbing rumours about him.  According to the grapevine, he’s been abducting homeless people from the streets of Caracas and conducting experiments on them with a new drug he’s been developing.”

 

“Do we know what kind of drug?”  This time it was Gaby who interrupted.

 

Waverly shook his head.  “Only that the experiment is trying to create some kind of super-soldier formula that Oliveros can then sell to the highest bidder.  The Caracas office has intercepted a communication that Oliveros apparently tried to send to the KGB, offering them first bite at the cherry, as it were.”

 

Illya nodded in understanding.  “And this is where I come in.”

 

“Exactly, Kuryakin,” Waverly said.  “The plan is to respond to Oliveros, suggesting that the KGB is very interested to know more, and would like to set up a meeting.  Kuryakin will pose as one of their agents – I suspect you won’t find that too difficult, eh?  We’ll hope to discover exactly what Oliveros is up to, and put a stop to it.”

 

“And what about us?” Napoleon asked.

 

Waverly gestured dismissively, as if their part in the operation was unimportant.  “Oh, you will pose as an American businessman, Solo, looking for opportunities under the Alliance of Progress, and Miss Teller can be your wife.  You can poke around and see what else you can find out – oh, and provide back-up for Kuryakin, of course.”

 

A small sound of protest escaped Illya’s throat.  He tried to strangle it, but wasn’t quite successful.

 

“You can’t always have Miss Teller all to yourself,” Waverly joked, misunderstanding.

 

Illya cursed himself silently, then nearly yelped again when Napoleon squeezed his thigh under the table.  He glared stonily at Napoleon, brushing his hand away impatiently.

 

“I suppose the only question that remains,” Napoleon said smoothly, as if nothing had happened, “is when do we leave?”

 

XXXXX

 

_[Now]_

 

Between them, Napoleon and Gaby manage to manhandle the unconscious Illya outside.  Somehow, he seems lighter than Napoleon expects.  He feels Illya's ribs through the scraps of cloth that cover them, and wonders how much weight a man can lose in five days.  They make it to the car, and Napoleon is profoundly grateful to find it still where they left it.  He helps Gaby lay Illya across the back seat, noting how Illya shivers in the cold night air.  Then they both climb into the front and Gaby drives them back to the UNCLE building, the silence between them deep and painful.

 

When they arrive, Gaby jumps from the car and runs inside to alert the Venezuelan UNCLE agents to their presence.  Ever since they obtained the intelligence as to Illya's possible location, agents have been on hand around the clock to assist them.  Napoleon reaches through to the back of the car to lay a hand on Illya's arm while he waits.

 

At the touch, Illya shifts slightly under his fingers and moans.  Even under the influence of sedation, his features contort briefly with pain or fear, and Napoleon feels his other hand clench into a fist.  Despite his anger issues, Illya is the strong one, the rock against which Napoleon sets his back in times of trouble.  He isn't sure if he can handle Illya being broken.

 

"It's all right," he says softly, but whether to himself or to Illya, he doesn't know.  "It's all going to be all right."

 

Two burly men with a stretcher jog out of the building, Gaby on their heels.  She hovers anxiously as they lift Illya out of the car and carry him into the building.  She and Napoleon follow them inside, down a long corridor to the medical facility attached to the offices.  They sweep through some swing doors into a triage room, where Waverly waits with the on-site doctor, Amado Loria.

 

"Good work, Solo, Miss Teller," Waverly says.  He looks drawn, as exhausted as they are, and the lines around his mouth tighten as he watches Illya being transferred from the stretcher to an examination table.

 

"What can you tell me?" Dr Loria asks, looking at Napoleon.

 

Napoleon's eyes are on Illya; bruises stand out starkly against his pale skin, he is covered in blood - his own and other people's, Napoleon suspects - and he is so very still.  Napoleon's throat closes and he finds he cannot speak.  He feels fingers brush the back of his hand, and he closes his own over Gaby's, squeezing hard.  She presents a calm front to the doctor and describes where and how they found Illya.

 

"He was incoherent and didn't recognise us," she concludes.  "We - we had to sedate him to be able to transport him."

 

The doctor asks more questions about the drugs in the tranquilizer darts, and Napoleon is impressed when Gaby rattles them off with confidence.  Dr Loria looks grim.

 

"And who knows what he was given before, by the men who took him," he says.  "Well, we can treat the injuries we can see, and we can get some fluids into him, at least.  It looks like he may not have eaten in a few days."

 

Napoleon thinks of finger bones sticking through wire, and swallows hard.  He doesn't mention that aloud, trying to push the image from his mind.

 

"And I suppose we'll deal with whatever else when he wakes up," Dr Loria says.  "That probably won't be for a few hours.  Now, if you'll excuse me, it looks like I have some work to do."  He looks pointedly at the door.

 

Waverly ushers Napoleon and Gaby out into the hallway, where Napoleon leans heavily against the wall and scrubs his hands over his face.

 

"It's been a long week for everyone," Waverly says with his classic British talent for understatement.  "Why don't we all try and get some sleep, and I'm sure things will look better tomorrow."

 

He looks at them hopefully, as if wanting them to reassure him, rather than the other way around, but Napoleon is too wrapped up in his own pain to care about comforting Waverly.  If it weren't for Waverly, none of this would have happened in the first place.  They would never have come to this god-forsaken country, Illya would never have gone to meet Oliveros alone, he and Gaby would never have...

 

Napoleon makes a supreme effort to stop the spiralling of his thoughts.  He knows he is in no fit state to think rationally about the situation, and he is aware enough to realise that voicing his thoughts will only make things worse.

 

"Yes, sir," is all he can manage.

 

He walks away from Gaby and Waverly then, feeling as if he is leaving half of himself behind, lying on a table, in the care of strangers.

 

They abandoned their covers when Illya went missing and have since stayed at the UNCLE building rather than their hotel, so as to have greater access to agency resources.  Napoleon makes his way to the room he has claimed as his own and closes the door on the horrors he has seen that night.  He strips down to his underwear and climbs into the bed, assuming he will not be able to sleep.  But the tension of the last few days slowly drains out of his body and, even though his anxiety for Illya is far from over, just knowing that Illya is alive and under the same roof allows Napoleon to let go, and sleep claims him.

 

XXXXX

 

_[Before]_

 

The UNCLE office in Caracas was quite impressive, Illya thought, as the three of them were shown into a meeting room.  It wasn't as shiny as the one in New York but it had a solid utility about it that appealed to Illya's Russian sensibilities.  He noticed Napoleon running a finger along the top of one of the chairs, as if checking for dust, and smiled to himself at his Cowboy's snobbish ways.  It still amazed Illya that they were attracted to one another, when Napoleon apparently represented all that was decadent and hedonistic about the West, and Illya supposedly all that was dour and minimalist about the East.  But somehow it worked.

 

They all chose seats, Gaby reaching for the nearest, while Illya and Napoleon both circled to the other side of the table where they could watch the door.  They might have very different backgrounds, but their training and insticts were the same.

 

The door opened shortly afterwards and three men came in.  All were shorter than both Illya and Napoleon, two heavy set and the third more slender.  They all had tanned skin and Latin features, with bushy moustaches and thick, dark hair.  One of the heavy set men, older than the other two, strode round the table to where Illya and Napoleon were seated and extended his hand.  They both got up and shook it in turn.

 

“Welcome,” the man said, nodding to Gaby.  “My name is Santiago Rayas.  I head up the office here in Caracas, and I’m the one who requested your presence.”  He gestured at the other two men.  “These are two of my deputies – Tulio Pedrosa, who is in charge of security, and Amado Loria, our chief scientist and medical officer.”

 

The five men all sat down.

 

“We’re pleased to be able to offer our services in this matter,” Napoleon said smoothly.

 

His easy way with people was something Illya envied.  Even after months working for UNCLE, he still found the diplomatic and social aspects of their work difficult.  He knew he was mostly a blunt instrument, to be aimed at a problem and launched to ensure its destruction.  He could employ stealth and subterfuge in the execution of his duties, but acting the part in polite company was definitely Napoleon’s area of expertise.  He was happy just to sit back and let Napoleon do the talking.

 

Unfortunately, Rayas had other ideas.  He turned and addressed Illya directly.

 

“Well, it was mostly you we were hoping to utilise in this operation, Agent Kuryakin,” he said.  “As you know, Oliveros is keen to make contact with the KGB regarding his experiments, and sending you to meet with him seems like the perfect way to gather intelligence on what he is doing.”

 

Illya inclined his head, but Gaby spoke up before he could answer.

 

“You’re not proposing to send Illya into the clutches of this madman alone, are you?” she asked, her eyes wide.

 

Rayas shrugged apologetically.  “Do you have a second ex-KGB agent we could send with him?”

 

“I will be fine,” Illya said, glaring at Gaby across the table.  “If this Oliveros wants to sell his product to KGB, he will want to treat me well.”

 

“And we’ll be on hand to help out if there’s any trouble,” Napoleon said.  “Now, what information is it exactly that you want us to obtain?”

 

Rayas looked to his scientist, the more slender of the two deputies.  Loria looked around at them all over steepled fingers, his expression serious.

 

“The most important thing, of course, is the location of his main operation,” Loria said.  “We know he has a laboratory somewhere in the city, but we haven’t been able to find it.  So, if he suggests meeting elsewhere, we’ll need Agent Kuryakin to insist on inspecting the operation before agreeing to a deal.  Of secondary importance is more detail about exactly what it is that his formula contains and is designed to do.”

 

“It should not be too hard to get him to tell me those,” Illya said.  “As I said, he is trying to sell, so he should be open with his information, no?”

 

“And while arrangements are being made to set up the meeting,” Napoleon said, bringing the room’s focus back to himself, “Miss Teller and I can make a splash at a high-priced hotel, to ensure any attention afforded to newcomers to the city is placed firmly on us.”

 

He smiled his most charming smile at Gaby, who rolled her eyes at him.  If Illya hadn’t known them both so well, he might have been jealous, but one of the few things he was secure in was Napoleon’s affections.  They weren’t able to be open about their relationship, but Napoleon made it clear in private that he only had eyes for Illya.  It seemed there wouldn’t be much chance for them to indulge in private time while they were in Caracas, however, since Illya’s accommodations would necessarily be of a much more modest nature, to fit in with his cover.

 

“Excellent!” Rayas concluded, clapping his hands together.  “It sounds like you have everything well in hand, as is to be expected from Waverly’s top team.”  He nodded at Napoleon.  “I will leave you to establish yourself and Miss Teller in the city, while Tulio briefs Agent Kuryakin on the next steps for making contact with Oliveros.”

 

Napoleon rose smoothly to his feet, laying a hand briefly on Illya’s shoulder and giving it a subtle squeeze.

 

“We’ll wait to hear from you,” he said, then he and Gaby left the room.

 

XXXXX

 

_[Now]_

 

Napoleon wakes to urgent banging on his door.  He answers it in his underwear and finds a dishevelled Gaby out in the corridor.  She is wearing leggings and an oversized shirt, and her long hair is loose and tangled.

 

“Come quickly,” she says, a little breathlessly.  “It’s Illya.  He woke up.”

 

Napoleon throws on some pants and a shirt, stuffs his feet into his shoes and is following Gaby to the medical facility in seconds.  They are still some distance away when a disturbing noise reaches Napoleon’s ears.  Someone is screaming.  He quickens his pace, Gaby at his side, and they burst into the triage room, where they left Illya last night.  The room is empty, but they follow the noise down a side corridor, where they find Waverly and Dr Loria looking through a large glass window.

 

Napoleon follows their gaze and sees Illya, strapped to a bed in an otherwise empty room.  He is thrashing around, struggling against his bonds and yelling his head off.

 

“What the hell is this?” Napoleon demands.

 

Waverly looks round at him with distressed eyes, but it is Dr Loria who answers him.

 

“Agent Kuryakin awoke a short time ago, but remained violent and incoherent,” he says in a clinical tone.  “He injured two of my orderlies and we had to restrain him.  I have been unable to get close enough to him to gain any further information about his condition.”

 

Napoleon is finding it difficult to focus on the people in the corridor with him; most of his attention is inside the room with Illya.  Illya, who is not Illya, and who may never be Illya again.

 

“Can’t you sedate him again?” he asks, his voice coming out strangled.

 

The doctor regards him steadily.  “That is an option we may have to resort to, yes.  But I would prefer to avoid it if possible.  His system has already been flooded with multiple drugs over the last few days, and pumping more into him is likely to do more harm than good.  Also, we cannot further assess his condition if he remains unconscious.”

 

Napoleon gestures angrily into the room.  “But you just said you can’t get near enough to him to assess him now!  And isn’t leaving him like this just as likely to do him harm?”

 

It’s Gaby who replies this time.  “Napoleon,” she says gently, laying a hand on his arm.

 

He looks down into her dark eyes, which are full of compassion.

 

“We thought perhaps he might respond to you,” she says.  “That you might be able to get him to calm down.”

 

Napoleon stares at her.  The thing he wants most in the world is to go into that room, to be with Illya.  But it’s the thing he wants least in the world, too.  He holds Gaby’s gaze for a long moment, then nods.

 

“All right,” he says.  “I’ll try.”

 

He makes his way to the door, dread building with every step.  He pushes it down resolutely, drawing on his love for Illya to make him stronger.  He opens the door, steps inside, and closes it behind him.  Then, he takes a deep breath and turns to face the man strapped to the bed.  Illya does not acknowledge his presence.

 

A thought comes to Napoleon and, when he speaks, he does so in Russian.  He does that sometimes, when they are alone, and he hopes it might help to ground Illya to the present.

 

“Illya,” he says, keeping his tone soft.  “It’s me, Napoleon.  I’m here, you’re safe.  You can stop fighting now.”

 

The noise stops abruptly, and the sudden quiet washes over Napoleon like an almost physical wave.  Illya looks at him warily, his nostrils flaring as he breathes heavily, his body still rigid with tension.

 

Napoleon steps closer, keeping his movements slow and obvious, as if Illya is a frightened animal.

 

“You’re safe,” he says again, still in Russian.  He can’t say all the things he’d really like to say, because Waverly is listening and will be able to understand him.  “Nobody is going to hurt you anymore.  I won’t let them.”

 

He is almost at the bedside now, Illya’s eyes still tracking his progress.  He reaches out towards one of Illya’s hands, but Illya flinches violently away, or at least as far as the restraints allow.  He lets out a wounded howl that shoots a dagger straight through Napoleon’s heart, and it is all Napoleon can do not to turn and flee.  He searches Illya’s face for any sign of recognition, but all he sees is fear and pain.

 

Napoleon reaches out again and, when Illya makes no move to stop him, cautiously strokes his fingers through Illya’s sweat-damp hair.  Illya looks confused, which Napoleon decides is a good sight better than panicked and screaming, so he does it again.  The repetitive motion seems to soothe Illya and, gradually, his muscles relax.  Napoleon whispers nothings in Russian as he continues his caress until, eventually, Illya closes his eyes and his breathing evens out into sleep.

 

Napoleon quietly exits the room and rejoins the others, studiously avoiding Waverly’s eyes.

 

“Well,” Dr Loria says.  “It’s a start.”

 

XXXXX

 

_[Before]_

 

Despite his words to the contrary in the briefing, Illya knew Napoleon wasn't happy about the situation, and their necessary separation.  If he was honest, Illya didn't like having to make contact with Oliveros on his own, either, but he wasn't about to admit it.  The one role he ought to be able to play to perfection was that of a KGB agent investigating a possible source of military advantage.

 

Illya learned from Tulio Pedrosa that Oliveros had extended an invitation for an interested party to position himself at a certain cafe in downtown Caracas at an appointed time, to receive further instructions.

 

"Why send Solo and Miss Teller away, then?" Illya asked, a little concerned.

 

"We know, from previous experience of Oliveros that he is a cautious man," Pedrosa said.  "This will just be a way to make preliminary contact.  We do not believe it will lead immediately to the actual meeting.  We thought it better for you to have local back-up at this stage, so as to be less likely to draw attention."

 

Illya wasn't overly keen on keeping Napoleon and Gaby in the dark, while he progressed the mission alone, but he knew they were only there at Rayas' request, so he decided to go along with Pedrosa's plan for the time being.

 

Pedrosa supplied him with a copy of a specific newspaper from the day before, and gave him a yellow carnation to fix in his buttonhole, saying that these were the instructions that had been given in Oliveros' message.  Illya frowned a little at the flower, it being rather more Napoleon's style than his own, but accepted it willingly enough and afixed it to his jacket.  Armed with his identifying marks, and directions to the rendezvous point, he set out into the city, ostensibly alone.

 

It took Illya about twenty minutes to reach the designated cafe.  He knew that Pedrosa had sent some men ahead to scout it out and set up surveillance positions and he was impressed when he couldn't immediately spot them.  Illya took a seat at a table on the roadside and ordered coffee.  He made sure his buttonhole flower was visible and unfolded his newspaper, trying to look relaxed and at leisure.

 

Waiting had never been Illya's strong point, and he thought that was something he did share with Napoleon.  They would both much rather be taking action, be it violent or otherwise, than waiting around for something to happen.  Still, when the only action he could take was to sit still, he could make himself do it.  Whilst appearing to pay attention only to his newspaper, Illya carefully watched the street in both directions, wondering what move Oliveros or his men might make to instigate the next steps in the process.

 

He was taken completely by surprise some minutes later when a cyclist speeding along the road from his right actually mounted the sidewalk just in front of his table and almost knocked it over.  As he drew level with where Illya was sitting, the man on the bicycle dropped a packet onto the table and then was gone, back onto the road and away.  Illya paid soon afterwards and left, making his way casually back to the UNCLE office with his prize.

 

Pedrosa was waiting for him in the briefing room.

 

"Success?" he asked as Illya came in.

 

Illya nodded, then took a moment to remove his buttonhole and cast it onto the table before retrieving the packet from within the pages of the newspaper and tossing it over.  Pedrosa snatched it from the air and ripped it open eagerly, perusing it contents.

 

"Excellent!" he said, after a moment.  "Oliveros wants to meet tomorrow.  He's suggesting another neutral rendezvous point but, once you're in the same place, you can negotiate seeing his lab as part of the deal."  He glanced up at Illya.  "Oh, and Agent Solo called while you were out.  He said you can contact him at Mansion Charaima hotel, room 327, if you need to."

 

"Yes," Illya said immediately.  "Is there telephone I can use?  I will tell him of the meeting so we can make plan."

 

Pedrosa didn't look particularly happy, but shrugged and pointed to a telephone on a side table.  He rose and made his way to the door, dropping the meeting information and another piece of paper with the hotel details on it in front of Illya.

 

Once Illya was alone, he crossed to the telephone and dialled the hotel number, asking for Napoleon's room.  Napoleon answered on the second ring.

 

"Worried about me, Cowboy?" Illya teased.

 

"Of course not," Napoleon replied, breezily.  "I know you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself."

 

Illya smiled into the receiver.  "Real meeting is tomorrow."  He read out the details.  "You and Gaby will be there this time, yes?"

 

"Yes," Napoleon said, firmly.  "We'll figure out some way to be inconspicuous.  I'm not letting you anywhere near Oliveros without proper back-up."

 

"Pedrosa's men seem competent," Illya said in a considering tone.

 

"I don't care," Napoleon replied.  "We'll be there."

 

Illya smiled again and put the phone down.

 

XXXXX

 

_[Now]_

 

"He's not going to get any better if he stays here!" Napoleon says.

 

Waverly regards him steadily.  "Dr Loria is an excellent physician, Solo," he says.  "I'm not sure where else we could send Kuryakin where he would receive better care."

 

Napoleon paces, his pent-up anxiety making him restless.  He isn't sure how he can explain that he doesn't think anything Dr Loria can do is going to help.  Waverly is the sort of man who listens to experts and allows them to guide his decisions.  What he doesn't realise is that Napoleon is an expert on Illya, and Napoleon knows better than any doctor what is and isn't good for him.

 

At the moment, what's happening is not good.  Illya is still restrained - for his own good, according to Dr Loria - and is alternating between sleep, episodes of psychotic rage, and withdrawing completely within himself so that even Napoleon can't reach him.  If Illya is ever going to recover, Napoleon needs to get him out of Caracas and somewhere prying eyes can't disapprove of how they act towards each other.  He is sure that some proper care and attention from someone who loves him will be better for Illya at this point than any medical treatment.

 

Napoleon forces himself to stop pacing and sit down in the chair on the other side of Waverly's desk.  He needs to come at this from a place of reason, not emotion.

 

"But Dr Loria has already said there isn't much more he can do, other than observe Illya at this point.  And Illya still won't let the good doctor near him.  What he needs is time somewhere away from everything, to let the drugs leave his system and to let him find himself again."

 

Waverly looks away, clearly uncomfortable with the reference to Illya's continuing psychological difficulties.

 

"What do you suggest then, Solo?" he asks.

 

This is what Napoloen has been hoping for; an opening for an idea he's been brewing since Illya woke up.

 

"Well, sir," he says, trying to keep his tone level, "I think you'll agree that we all deserve some time off after this mission."  He doesn't give Waverly a chance to respond, continuing, "I have some property in upstate New York.  If we could get Illya back home, I could take him there and let him recuperate where he can't hurt anyone else - or himself."

 

Waverly looks uncertain.  "What do you think, Miss Teller?"

 

Napoleon has forgotten she is even in the room, but now turns to her with pleading eyes.  Of course Waverly is going to put more weight behind her opinion than his; they have worked together much longer and he trusts her judgment.  Napoleon doesn't need to worry, as Gaby is evidently on his side.

 

"I think it's an excellent plan, sir," she says, utterly professional.  "You've seen how Agent Kuryakin responds to Agent Solo.  If we can have some time, I believe we can bring him back to field ready status more readily than his current situation can."

 

"We?" Napoleon asks.

 

"Of course," she replies, calmly.  "I think you'll have enough to worry about with Illya to be bothered with more mundane concerns.  You look after Illya, I'll look after you."

 

Napoleon could kiss her, but manages to restrain the impulse.  Waverly is sitting right there, after all, and any overly emotional response from Napoleon right now is only going to hurt their case.

 

Waverly is silent for a long moment, looking back and forth between them.  Then he sighs.

 

"All right," he says.  "I can arrange the transportation and sign off on a few weeks of leave for you all.  I just hope you know what you're getting into.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” Napoleon says, unable to keep the relief and satisfaction out of his voice.

 

He gets to his feet and leaves the office.  Once outside, a wave of reaction suddenly hits him and he finds himself leaning against the wall for support.  A hand on his arm causes him to look down into Gaby’s concerned eyes.

 

“Thank you for what you did in there,” he says, his gratitude heartfelt.

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she says.  “What you’re proposing is going to be hard work, and you’re going to need to be ready for it.  If you want to help Illya, you’ve got to start looking after yourself better.”

 

“Do you think we can do it?” he asks, allowing some of his fear to surface just for a moment.  “Do you think we can help him?”

 

Gaby slips under his arm and gives him a hug.

 

“Yes,” she whispers into his chest.  “We’ll get him back.  We have to.”

 

XXXXX

 

_[Before]_

 

The following day Illya found himself once again out in the city, this time knowing that Napoleon and Gaby were somewhere nearby, tracking his progress.  It made him feel so much more secure, thinking about them keeping tabs on him as he made his way to the new rendezvous point.  He had a bug concealed in one of his shoes, and Pedrosa was back at the UNCLE office with the listening equipment, but it was his team-mates' unseen presence that gave Illya confidence.  Luckily, his destination was in one of the more fashionable districts of Caracas, so it would be easy for Napoleon and Gaby to blend into the crowd.

 

This was where the mission got serious.  Illya was hopefully about to make actual face-to-face contact with their target, and he would need to be at the top of his game if he was to convince Oliveros that he was legitimately interested in the offered product for the KGB.  He thought about previous missions where he had worked alone for his former masters.  Slipping into that mindest turned out to be more difficult than he anticipated.  He didn't think working with Napoleon and Gaby had made him soft; it was just that having team-mates and working for UNCLE were such a different proposition from his previous life, that his work attitudes and habits had necessarily shifted.

 

Illya reached his destination; a small tailor nestled between larger and flashier shops.  A bell jangled above the door as he entered, causing a young man behind the counter to look up.  Illya immediately scanned the interior - two shop assistants and a door presumably leading to a back room.  He stepped up to the counter and began the proscribed script.

 

"I would like to order a suit for my nephew's funeral."

 

The young man regarded him solemnly.  "Of course, sir," he said.  "And what a tragedy, to lose someone so young."

 

"Yes, thank you," Illya replied.  "He was so full of life and we will all miss him very much."

 

The man's eyes narrowed slightly at the end of Illya's speech and he stepped out from behind the counter.

 

"If sir would like to follow me, we will take some measurements," he said.

 

He started to lead the way, but the bell over the door caused them both to stop and turn.  Illya saw Napoleon and Gaby enter the shop.  Napoleon was talking in his usual drawl.

 

"Cousin Bernard swears the tailors in Caracas are the best value in the world," he said.  "It would be a crime to come all this way and not see what they have to offer."

 

Napoleon looked up, his gaze alighting on Illya's escort.  "Ah!," he exclaimed in satisfaction.  "My good man, I would like to hear more about your delightful wares."

 

The young man waved the other shop assistant over.  "I'm afraid I am already with a customer, sir," he said, politely, "but I am sure my colleague can help you."

 

The other assistant bustled over to Napoleon, and Illya could hear them discussing fabric types as he and his escort ventured into the back room.  The space behind the shop was small and cramped, filled as it was with shelves containing boxes and fabric samples.

 

The young man indicated a curtained cubicle against one wall. "If sir would care to step inside and remove his shoes and outer clothing?" he said, diffidently.

 

Illya was confused and not a little alarmed.

 

"What?" he asked.  "I thought you realised I do not really want suit.  I am here to meet Huascar Oliveros."

 

The young man shook his head slightly.  "Merely a precaution, sir," he said.  "Once you are ready, I will take you to meet my employer."

 

Illya considered his options.  If he made a fuss about leaving his shoes behind, he would only cast suspicion upon himself.  But, if he was somehow escorted off site without them, Pedrosa would have no way of tracking his location.  However, he couldn't see an obvious way out of the room his was in, and he figured it would be difficult for Oliveros' men to get him out of the building in his underwear without drawing undue attention.  Not to mention that Napoleon and Gaby were currently between him and the way out, so they should be able to follow him anyway.  He decided it would be best just to go along with what the young man wanted.

 

It was only when he emerged from the cubicle, barefoot and wearing only a vest and underpants, to find the young man pulling a trapdoor up from the floor, that Illya first thought he might be in trouble.

 

XXXXX

 

_[Now]_

 

They have to sedate Illya again for the journey.  Napoleon doesn't like it, but it's the only way to get Illya home, and he hopes his plan will work in the long run.  Waverly bids them farewell and good luck at the airport in New York, and they transfer the sleeping Illya into a car for the onward trip to Napoelon's cabin.  He and Gaby share the driving, stocking up on supplies at a nearby small town before finally arriving at their destination.

 

It’s not a big place, and Napoleon hasn’t been there for some time, so it’s rather dusty and has a stale feel to it.  Napoleon helps Gaby carry the bags inside, showing her the kitchen and the living space and apologising that it’s not more luxurious.  But Gaby is charmed by the cabin, though she says she can't imagine Napoleon spending time there.

 

"It's so - rustic," she says, with a playful smile.

 

"It's isolated and has a fortified storm cellar," Napoleon explains.  "Perfect for storing art with a slightly shady provenance."

 

“And hiding from the authorities?” she asks, with one arched eyebrow.

 

“On occasion,” Napoleon admits.

 

Between them, they manage to get Illya up to one of the bedrooms.

 

"You stay here with him," Gaby says.  "I'll start putting things to rights downstairs."  When Napoleon opens his mouth to protest, she shushes him.  "You look after Illya, I look after you, remember?"

 

He smiles his thanks, and sits down in a chair next to the bed.  It's been a very long day, and his eyelids droop almost immediately.  He struggles to stay awake, but quickly loses the battle.

 

When Napoleon wakes again, he finds blue eyes regarding him from the bed.  He stops himself from jumping up, knowing that sharp movements are only going to make Illya withdraw.

 

"Do you know me?" he asks in Russian.

 

"Cowboy," Illya replies in English, his tone a little sleepy.

 

Napoleon smiles broadly.

 

"Where are we?" Illya asks, and it is the most words he has uttered coherently since this whole nightmare began.

 

"A cabin I own," Napoleon tells him.  "Away from everything."

 

Illya frowns.  "You do not tie me down," he says.

 

"No," Napoleon reassures him.  "No doctors, no hospitals, no restraints.  Just you, me and Gaby."

 

He watches as Illya relaxes slightly, the creases marring his forehead gradually smoothing out.

 

"That's good," Illya says, and Napoleon knows he has made the right decision.

 

“How do you feel?” he asks.

 

Illya looks uncertain.  “Everything is blurry,” he says after a pause.  “I remember things, but I do not know if they are real.”

 

Napoleon isn’t sure if he really wants to go through this with Illya right now, but he knows it might be important for Illya to know what happened.  So, he takes a deep breath, and tries to keep his expression neutral.

 

“Tell me,” he says.

 

“A cage,” Illya says, his voice dropping to almost a whisper.  “Men with needles.”

 

“I’m afraid that’s all real,” Napoleon says, “but they can’t hurt you anymore.  You’re safe here.”

 

Illya frowns again.  “They made me very angry.  I think I killed some of them.”

 

Napoleon remembers the bodies on the floor in the warehouse, the way they looked as though they’d been savaged by a wild animal, and suppresses a shudder.

 

“They deserved it,” he says, firmly.  “Nobody is going to mourn them.”

 

“Then I was alone for long time,” Illya continues.  He raises his hands slightly and stares at them, his breath starting to quicken.  “There was much blood.”

 

Napoleon reaches out and grabs one of Illya’s hands, pressing it to his chest, over his heart.

 

“Don’t think about that,” he says, trying to take his own advice.  “That’s over now.  Concentrate on this.  I’m here, and this is real.”

 

Illya stares into his eyes, and there is still something missing between them, something that has been lost.  Napoleon just hopes they can somehow bring it back, together.

 

XXXXX

 

_[Before]_

 

The young man from the tailor led Illya down a long tunnel, which eventually emerged into what was apparently a parking and loading area for the local shops.  A black limosine was waiting for them, its side door open.  The man gestured for Illya to climb inside, which he did, cautiously.  Huascar Oliveros was sitting in the back seat, facing forwards, so Illya sat opposite him.  The car door closed behind him.

 

"Mr Oliveros, I presume?" he said, attempting to sound nonchalant, while the leather of the car seats chafed his bare thighs.

 

"You presume correctly," Oliveros replied, his voice smooth and oily.

 

"May I ask the reason for this?" Illya said, gesturing at his state of undress.  "It is a little undignified."

 

"I apologise for the inconvenience," Oliveros said.  "But we have important business to discuss, and I needed to be sure that no unwanted parties are listening in."

 

Illya maintained an air of mild irritation, in the hopes that Oliveros would believe his precautions were unnecessary.  He was completely on his own now, so it was even more important that he keep his cover intact.  The only way he was going to get out of this situation in one piece was to play along and hopefully complete whatever transaction Oliveros wanted to conduct with the KGB.

 

"So," he said, "what more can you tell about your experiment?"

 

Oliveros gestured towards the driver, who started the car, and they drove off, away from any possible help available from Napoleon and Gaby.

 

"I'm afraid the science of it may be rather beyond you," Oliveros said, condescendingly.  "Essentially, though, it works to increase agression and physical stamina in its subjects, while suppressing their sense of identity and free will, so as to make them malleable and obedient."

 

"Thus creating army of mindless unstoppable soldiers?" Illya concluded.

 

Oliveros smiled, but it didn't remotely reach his eyes.  "That's the general idea, yes.  Does that sound like something your masters would be interested in?"

 

Illya pretended to consider the question.

 

"Potentially, yes," he said after a moment.  "I would need to see effects working in practice before making decision, though.  Can you take me somewhere to witness this?"

 

"I thought you might say that," Oliveros said, "so we are on our way to my lab right now.  It isn't far."

 

Despite being cut off from his physical back-up and his remote supervisors, Illya felt quite pleased with how things were going.  He had gained further information about what Oliveros was trying to achieve, and he was now heading exactly where he was supposed to go.  If he could agree some terms with Oliveros and manage to get out of the lab unscathed, he would be able to report back to the Caracas UNCLE office on the location of the experiment, and hopefully declare the mission a success.  He knew Napoleon wouldn't be happy with how things had played out, but Napoleon's displeasure would be a small price to pay for an overall positive outcome.

 

They only drove for a few minutes before the car turned into a shabby industrial street and pulled up outside what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

 

"And here we are!" Oliveros announced.  "I know it doesn't look like much, but it pays to be discreet in my line of work.  Now," he continued, "I believe I am going to implement a slight change of plans.  You, my friend, are exactly the kind of physical specimen I am looking for to test my serum.  And delivering a fully functional test subject back to the KGB will be a much better demonstration than simply showing you my work."

 

He gestured again and, before Illya could think about how to resist, an arm clamped round his neck from behind.  He felt the sharp prick of a needle at his neck and everything immediately started going grey around the edges.

 

Before he lost consciousness, Illya heard Oliveros say, "Don't worry.  You won't feel a thing."

 

XXXXX

 

_[Now]_

 

When Napoleon comes back downstairs, he finds Gaby chopping vegetables in the kitchen. 

 

"How is he?" she asks after a moment of silence.

 

"He's sleeping again," Napoleon answers.

 

"He seems to be doing that a lot," Gaby says.  "Is that normal?"

 

"Who knows what's normal in a situation like this?" he says.  "Sleeping is better than most of the alternatives, as far as I can tell.  Though we did manage a whole conversation earlier.  It all made sense, too."

 

She shakes her head at his poor attempt at humour.  "That's got to be a good sign, right?" she asks, and he can hear the hope in her voice.

 

"Yes," he replies firmly.  "And he's remembering more about what happened than I would have thought.  Though that's not necessarily such a good thing."

 

They fall back into silence and work together preparing the food.  It turns out Gaby is making soup, and Napoleon approves her choice.  It will be good for all of them to have a home-cooked meal, and it's very soothing to be doing something so normal after the last few days.

 

The meal is almost ready when they hear a shout and a crash from above them.  Napoleon is out of the kitchen and up the stairs in seconds.  He opens the door to Illya's room to find Illya huddled on the floor between the bed and the wall.  He is breathing heavily and looking about himself wildly.  Napoleon isn't sure what he is seeing, but he doesn't think it's a cosy bedroom in a country cabin.

 

"Illya," he says, going back to Russian.  "It was just a dream.  You're here with me and you're safe."

 

Illya turns towards the sound of his voice and slowly focuses on Napoleon.  This time, when he speaks, he does so in Russian.

 

"I was back in the cage," he says.  "I was so hungry...  I didn't feel like me.  It was like something else took over, and I..."  He breaks off and looks up at Napoleon.  "Was it real?  Did I eat...?"

 

The awful image springs back into Napoleon's mind, and his face must give Illya the answer to his question.  Illya looks stricken for a moment, then suddenly surges up off the floor and flings himself at the sink on the far side of the room.  He only just reaches it before he is violently sick.  Napoleon doesn't know what to do.

 

After a moment, he crosses to stand behind Illya and reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder.  Illya shrugs him off immediately.

 

"Don't touch me!" he hisses, still bent over the sink.

 

Napoleon retreats to the doorway, but does not leave.  He bears witness to Illya's suffering, wishing with all his heart that he could somehow make it better.

 

"You weren't in your right mind and you did what you had to do to survive," he says.  "There's nothing wrong with that."

 

Illya runs the tap and splashes water on his face and around the basin, eradicating most of the mess.  Then he make his way slowly back over to the bed and sits down on its edge, his back to Napoleon.

 

"They made me into less than a man," he says eventually, so quietly that Napoleon can only just make out the words.

 

Napoleon wants to go to him, to take him in his arms, but he knows Illya isn't ready for that yet.  Instead, he says, "And if you don't fight to get back who you were, they win."

 

XXXXX

 

_[Before]_

 

Illya woke to cramped confinement.  Rough floorboards beneath him caught at his exposed skin, and wire mesh surrounded him, preventing him from extending his legs fully or reaching above his head.  To his right, facing away from the window was another cage, with a huddled figure crouched in it.

 

Illya edged in that direction, reaching out to grasp the mesh separating them.

 

"Hello?" he ventured, keeping his voice low.

 

There was a shuffling noise and then the figure launched itself towards him, snarling and clawing at him.  Illya scrabbled backwards as far as he could, horrified by the bared teeth and apparent lack of human recognition.

 

"Making friends, I see?"  Oliveros' voice focused Illya's attention outside the cage.

 

His adversary had stepped into view from somewhere else in the room, and was now looking down at Illya, an expression of satisfaction on his face.  Illya drew himself together, determined to present a calm and defiant front, despite his circumstances.

 

"What do you hope to achieve with this?" he asked.

 

Oliveros spread his hands.  "A demonstration, nothing more," he said, smoothly.  "Once you have been exposed to my serum and properly trained, I will sell you back to your masters to show them what is possible."

 

"What makes you think KGB will pay you for torture of one of its agents?" Illya asked.

 

Oliveros smiled.  "Once they see how much more useful you are to them after my treatment, I imagine they will be quite keen to pay both for you and for more of the formula."

 

"But why not keep to original agreement and just show me what you have done?" Illya persisted, wanting to keep Oliveros talking as long as possible.

 

"Your masters would have no knowledge of what my other subjects were like before the treatment," Oliveros said, seemingly happy to explain.  "For a true demonstration, they need both before and after.  They will be able to compare your new attitudes and abilities with what they knew of you before, so the true extent of my accomplishment will be clear."

 

"Someone will come for me," Illya said, thinking of Napoleon and Gaby, and how they would tear the city apart until they found him.

 

But Oliveros remained unruffled.  "That may be true,” he said, “but from your point of view, it is already too late.  You received your first dose of the serum while you were unconscious.  You will start to feel the effects very shortly."  He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.  "I'm actually rather looking forward to seeing how you react.”

 

Illya felt rage rush up from the pit of his stomach and he surged forwards in a futile attempt to reach Oliveros.

 

"You will not get away with this," he growled.  "I will tear your throat out."

 

But Oliveros just smiled delightedly.  "Excellent!" he said.  "It's starting to take effect.  And I suspect you will get the opportunity to tear out many throats in the future, but none of them will be mine.  When I am finished with you, you will do exactly what I say."

 

A fog was starting to descend over Illya's mind.  Reality gradually retreated, leaving Illya in a swirling chaos of rage and nausea.  He tried to focus on an image of Napoleon, but that too slowly slipped away.  He heard someone laughing and knew it was his enemy.  He held on to that instead, and settled down to wait for the opportunity to strike.

 

XXXXX

 

_[Now]_

 

"Full house," Gaby announces, laying her cards down on the bedspread with a flourish and a grin.

 

Napoleon stares at her in exasperation as she gathers the pile of matchsticks between them and drags them towards her.  Her pile is significantly bigger than the other two.

 

"How do you keep doing that?" he demands, but she just smiles at him smugly.

 

Napoleon looks up to see Illya gazing pensively out of the window, his cards apparently forgotten in his hands.  Today has been a good day so far, hence the card game.  But Illya can still be unpredictable, his moods subject to change at a moment's notice.  Sometimes, he seems fully with them and almost back to his old self.  But other times, it’s as if he’s entirely lost to them and Napoleon wonders if things will ever truly get better.

 

Napoleon realises Illya has been quiet for some time.

 

"All right, Peril?" he asks, keeping his tone casual.

 

Sharp blue eyes snap in his direction, narrowed and wary.

 

"What are we doing here?" Illya asks, wearily.

 

While Illya's memory has been patchy, Napoleon thinks he means figuratively rather than literally.  He isn't sure how to answer, but Gaby speaks up before he has to decide what to say.

 

"We're on vacation," she says, brightly.  "Isn't that what friends do when they get a break from working?"

 

Illya lets out an angry huff.  "We are not on vacation," he says, baldly.  "You are babysitting me, waiting to see if I can ever be useful again."

 

Gaby pouts at him.  "I wouldn't put it like that," she says, with a quick, worried glance towards Napoleon.

 

She’s been amazing this whole time, taking care of all the mundane things that Napoleon hasn’t the energy to think about, and supporting him emotionally when the stress of the situation gets too much for him.  But neither of them really know what they’re doing here, or whether or not they will ever be able to function properly as a team again.

 

Illya suddenly sweeps both cards and matchsticks from the bed and jumps to his feet.

 

"Don't patronise me!" he roars, then heads towards the bedroom door.

 

Napoleon scrambles after him.  "Where are you going?" he asks.

 

"Out!" Illya throws over his shoulder, stalking down the landing to the top of the stairs.

 

Napoleon makes as if to follow him, but Gaby calls him back.

 

"Let him go," she says.  "He's been cooped up in here too long.  He needs some space.  He'll be okay."

 

Napoleon knows she means Illya will be fine outside on his own for a few minutes, but when he answers her, he puts all his anxiety for the future into the question.  "Will he?"

 

Gaby just looks back at him, her eyes uncertain.  “I don’t know.”

 

XXXXX

 

_[Before]_

 

He had been in the cage for a long time, but now he was out.  His muscles protested the movement and he felt weak, but he was out of the cage and his enemy was nearby.

 

There were hands, pushing him towards a table, and voices shouting harshly near his ear.  He stumbled in the right direction, trying hard to focus through the pain and confusion.

He waited, letting them think he was doing as he was told, giving them time to let their guards down.  Someone was speaking, but the words didn't mean anything to him.  The voice, though; that cut through the fog in his brain and awakened his purpose.

 

He knew he had to kill his enemy if he could.  It was the only thought that remained clear in his mind and he pushed all his energy and his anger into it.  His enemy was doing bad things, and needed to be stopped.  He was the only one who could do it, and it was the only way for him to escape.

 

When his enemy was close enough, foolishly stepping within striking distance, he let the coiled rage burst free.  His hands flashed out, seeking the fragile flesh of a throat.  When his fingers met skin, he clenched them hard together and ripped back with all his strength.  He experienced a fierce surge of joy as hot blood sprayed over him.

 

Another figure came into his vision and he despatched that one as quickly as the first, fingernails clawing, hands grasping and twisting until a sickening crack told him it was over.

 

One more went down before the sharp bite of electricity forced him to his knees.  His body betrayed him, slumping to the floor and refusing to obey his frantic instructions to keep fighting.  He felt hands under his upper arms, and then he was being dragged across the floor.  They stuffed him back inside the cage, locking it firmly, and he knew he would not be let out again.  But he had destroyed his enemy.  Even if he died there in the cage, nobody else would have to suffer like he had.

 

And then he was alone.  It grew dark, then light, and then dark again.  What little of himself remained was lost to the darkness, and he knew no more.

 

XXXXX

 

_[Now]_

 

"How did you find me?"

 

Illya is back in the cabin, and Napoleon has brought him some dinner.  He seems calmer, but the question takes Napoleon by surprise.

 

"In the warehouse?"

 

Illya nods.

 

Napoleon puts the dinner tray on the sideboard and moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

 

"An agent picked up a one of Oliveros' guys at the bus station, trying to leave the city.  He was pretty frantic and it didn't take much to get him to tell us what happened.  He said one of the subjects of the experiment went beserk and killed Oliveros and two of his scientists.  With their leader gone, the others fled.  He told us where you were being held and we came to get you."

 

"Why?"  Illya's voice is low, but Napoleon hears confusion and despair in the simple question.

 

He reaches out for one of Illya's hands, but Illya pulls it away.

 

"Illya," he says, softly.  "Why do you think?"

 

He waits, and eventually Illya meets his gaze, searching for a moment.  Illya's eyes widen in surprise at what he finds.

 

"You love me," he says, and this time it's not a question.

 

"Yes."

 

Napoleon reaches out again and grasps Illya's hand, not letting him escape.  He brings it up to his lips and kisses Illya's palm, not breaking eye contact the whole time.

 

"I love you," he confirms.  "And I'll do whatever it takes to get you back."

 

Illya frees his hand and reaches up to cup Napoleon's cheek, stroking his thumb over Napoleon's skin.

 

"Together?" he asks.

 

Napoleon places his own hand over Illya's and presses it to his face.  "Together."

 

Gaby finds them later, asleep in each other's arms, and knows that, this time, the light at the end of the tunnel is real.

 

THE END

 


End file.
